Epicurean Duress
by randommuffintpk
Summary: Whenever a case ends and Sherlock no longer has anything with which to occupy his restless mind, he can't shut up. One evening, in a fit of post-case boredom, an inconvenient truth comes to light and John is...less than pleased. This story is light on bondage, but heavy on sass and snark. You've been warned.
1. In Which Sherlock Unleashes Hell

Epicurean Duress – Chapter 1

**Sorry for the three-month-long break; a bunch of things were happening. I got promoted at work, I'm in the middle of training for another promotion, I had extremely limited computer access, I got a terrible temporary job, et cetera. These past few months have been pretty, erm...fucking atrocious, really.**

**HOWEVER! This month I got my laptop in the mail, last week I started college (fourteen credits this semester! Yay!) and now I have time and access to a creativity-inducing environment (ie. a three-story library). Now let's get this show on the road.**

**Yes, I deleted and reposted the first chapter of this story because I changed/edited a few lines and corrected grammar mistakes. For those of you following this, sorry, but I must seem like such a tease. But rest assured, I'm almost finished with this story and will be updating shortly.**

**Disclaimer: What goes here is obvious.**

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><p>John Watson was a man of few words.<p>

Whenever he did speak, his phrasings were precise, measured, and premeditated. Good doctors did not mince words. Soldiers were trained to speak concisely, assuredly, promptly. An army doctor would be no different. Granted, he was usually a relatively content individual, but that contentment did not share the same space with "verbosity." He was perfectly fine with silence – in fact, he preferred it over nearly any noise that comes to the imagination.

So why in the bleeding _hell_ did he live with Sherlock Holmes?

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Oh, John wasn't bothered by the promised "days on end" silence. On a case, Sherlock would lie upon the sofa like a dormant housecat, eyes at half-mast while he murmured lowly under his breath about some stabbing or shooting or bombing or such, hands characteristically steepled beneath his chin. It was during those evenings that John would make himself a nice steaming cuppa, change into his pyjamas, and read some good old Hemingway or McCarthy before trundling off to bed. Those were the nights.

As soon as a case was solved and he was no longer deducing, Sherlock, to put it politely, wouldn't shut the fuck up.

Sherlock had once stated that talking aloud helped him think. As far as John was concerned, that was the most honest statement that the other man had ever expressed. Sherlock's tendency towards loquacity was enough to make John grind his teeth. The detective jabbered to himself and to John in the kitchen, at his microscope, in the shower, out in public, in the mortuary, and the list went on. He even shouted at the people on the telly, for God's sake. John, who before his life with Sherlock had been quite used to prolonged periods of silence, was more than a little irked that he rarely found a moment's peace.

If you think about it, it makes perfectly logical sense that the good doctor eventually snapped.

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><p>It all started on a Wednesday in the middle of April. Spring was in the air, the earth was singing of new beginnings... and John and Sherlock were being chased through the backstreets of Corby by four cronies of an international human trafficking ring. To the casual observer, Sherlock Holmes and his blogger were running in a completely random pattern, merely trying to stay ahead of their pursuers. Sherlock's morbid sense of humour supplied "Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive" as he ran, and he wanted to smack himself. No time for that, though. They were almost to their ultimate destination.<p>

He and John had been fleeing like maniacs, but Sherlock had deliberately made it so that their route had been very convoluted and very, very long. He needed to tire out his pursuers. Sherlock, being less than avidly athletic and not having eaten for the past two days, was running on pure adrenaline as he urged his long legs to move faster. John, on the other hand, got ordinary amounts of sleep, ate regular meals, and was an ex-soldier – he was perfectly fine as he allowed Sherlock to lead the chase.

Forty-three seconds later (yes, Sherlock was counting), the warehouse came into view. His energy flagging, he bolted for a door on the building's left side, wrenching it open and darting into the darkness within, John only a second behind.

The four henchmen were positively gleeful. Here were their targets, seeking refuge in an old building where all the windows were barred and the other doors likely locked. No way out, like rats in a trap. They were considerably winded, but they could catch their breath as they searched for the two men cowering within.

"Right," the lead crony, Eddie, grunted. He was short and fit, with cropped bleached blond hair, several scorpion tattoos, and at least six silver-capped teeth. "Two men for each target. Arno and I can take the shorter one – he looks like he can put up a bigger fight. Dom, Curt, you look for the skinny one. He looks like he'll be feisty, so feel free to have a bit of fun before you finish him." His smile glinted. "Let's go, boys." And throwing the door open, the four charged in.

In retrospect, the eight members of New Scotland Yard that were lying in wait ten feet into the building may have tackled the henchmen a _little_ too hard. Maybe it was because they could hear every word of Eddie's plans for John and Sherlock. Or maybe they were just a bit excited that Mr Holmes' plan was a success. In any case, Eddie's forehead made a resounding _smack_ as he hit the floor, Arno nearly lost a tooth as he was slammed into the nearest wall, Dom shrieked like a frightened nine-year-old girl as two officers came barrelling toward him, and Curt's right shoe somehow went flying off his foot as he went down. It was all a bit surreal. And by "surreal," the author of this tale means "downright hilarious." She is grinning as she writes it.

Not five yards from the testosterone-infused smackdown that was occurring, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson were having a laugh at their would-be killers' expense while catching their breath. "Did you see the blond one's face? Just brilliant," Sherlock laughed/gasped.

John giggled. "Those poor sods. At least they'll be able to sort out their trauma in prison." The duo chuckled a bit more.

As they finally stopped panting for air, the four criminals were led from the building in varying stages of resignation and bundled into squad cars that had pulled forward from the adjoining street.

"Thanks for that, you two," came a voice from behind Sherlock and John. Detective Inspector Dimmock stepped forward to shake their hands. "Really, well done. I shouldn't have doubted your plan, Mister Holmes."

"No, you really shouldn't have," Sherlock replied with a slight smirk, his tone a bit too disdainful for polite conversation. "Feigning a clumsy attempt to infiltrate their ring and then 'accidentally' blowing cover was child's play – honestly, any oaf could have done it." His pale eyes glinted with mirth as he eyed the DI a tad more blatantly, smirk deepening. "But no matter, the deed is done, and now I really must dash."

"But the paperwork –" Dimmock protested.

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. "Me, doing paperwork? I'd rather have been left at the mercy of those unfortunate men in the police wagons. No, I think you'll be able to handle this on your own. Give my regards to Lestrade." He turned abruptly on his heel and began to walk down the street, long coat swirling behind him in the standard dramatic form. Sherlock repressed a snicker as he once again left John to make excuses for the younger man's customary acerbic comments. Forcing John to overstep the boundaries of his comfort zone was quite amusing, and, as of yet, John had never done the same to him. Perhaps he never would.

He heard jogging behind him. "You _always_ do that, Sherlock, you _always_ leave me behind and I _always _have to ask the forgiveness of the last person you insulted and explain to them that you 'don't mean to be' an impolite prick."

"Most of them already know that I am precisely that, John. Besides, you said so yourself that I don't intentionally act boorish."

John grunted. "I know you don't; that's why I try not to hold it against you."

"Good. Dinner?"

"Starving. Where to?"

"I'm thinking Andaman Thai – I could go for a curry."

John snorted. "As if you'll eat anything anyway." The two walked until they found a street with more traffic and caught a cab.

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><p>It was starting. Sherlock could feel it.<p>

Post-case boredom was slithering into his brain and he couldn't stop it.

It was odd, the way he could sense his mind coming down from the adrenaline aftershocks and slowly but surely beginning to slip into that odious state. How utterly tedious. It wasn't as though it was torturous or painful – it was simply vexing and he eventually tired of the sound of his own voice, if you could believe it. Ah well, there was no stopping it now.

He dropped a slice of bamboo that had been halfway to his mouth back into his green chicken curry and began to examine the cracks in the ceiling above, brain already swirling with algorithms and numeric sequences. Noticing that Sherlock was no longer making any attempt at eating, John looked up from his gai pad king to see that his cohort was slumped in his seat, head tilted upwards with an expression that bordered on the manic adorning his usually-placid features.

"Problem?" John hedged. "Adul made mine perfectly, so I doubt he made yours any less acceptable. I could pop into the kitchen though, if you'd like."

Sherlock huffed out a sigh. "I once created an algorithm that could calculate how many grains of rice fit into a space of a cubic foot. I was seven years old and my parents had become particularly taken with a Vietnamese restaurant that was quite varied in its selection of species of rice. Mycroft ate so much every time we went there that he can hardly stand to look at rice to this day without his stomach growling noisily – occasionally I will order Asian takeaway right before he comes over to the flat and purposely waft the smell in his direction."

"Sherlock."

"...funny because most of the time I don't even end up eating the food. But back to the algorithm: it was really very elegant, and could be altered to fit the specifications of different types of rice – Basmati, Jasmine, Kinuhikari, Arborio, Japonica –"

"Sherlo—"

"—et cetera. Of course, you'd have to factor in whether or not the rice was cooked or raw, dehydrated or converted, instant or –"

"Okay, okay, stop. Just stop." John held up his hands. Here it was: the oncoming storm. Sherlock had taken perhaps one breath during that entire utterance, and began chewing at his full lower lip as soon as John had halted his monologue. "Post-case boredom?" Sherlock nodded jerkily, eyes rapidly scanning the room around him.

"Well, you can take care of it as you do every other time. Play on your Strad. Start a new experiment. Solve some cold cases for the Yard. Poke around in Bart's mortuary – just please, for the love of God, don't bring anything home from there. We don't need a repeat of last Thursday." John still hadn't gotten over finding the goitre on the cutting board. Never again, dammit. Never. Again.

Sherlock huffed loudly. "Really, John, I can't expect someone as ordinary as yourself to understand that dissecting that woman's goitre was a potentially groundbreaking study in the making. While I will admit that I was not expecting it to spatter blood all over the kitchen as soon as my scalpel barely punctured it, I must also say th—"

John held up both hands as if in supplication. "I don't need to hear about that. New topic, please."

"Hm. Well, yesterday I put a mouse that I captured for Mrs Hudson into the oven and –"

"New topic."

"I think I may have definitive proof that Mycroft is engaging in amorous activities with Lestrade. Th—"

John groaned lowly and buried his head in his hands. "Oh sweet Jesus. Anything but that – have mercy, Sherlock. New topic."

Hmm. Sherlock's catlike eyes narrowed as his focus shifted to his flatmate and best friend. "John," he said slowly, drawing out the vowel sound a bit longer than usual. John lifted his head to look at Sherlock. He really looked this time.

But to be completely honest, it was more of an ogle.

Sherlock was well aware that he was exceedingly aesthetically pleasing to both sexes. After all, he was hit on by not just everyday people, but some of his targets and enemies as well. Sherlock held back a smirk as he remembered his first encounter with James Moriarty. He may have been playing "Jim from IT" to get to Sherlock, but judging by his dilated pupils and sweaty palms as he had spoken to the detective for the first time, not even the ingenious consulting criminal could resist the appeal of Sherlock Holmes. Unlike humanity, biology did not lie.

Sherlock was dressed rather well tonight, in a fitted deep blue shirt that highlighted the pale blue in his eyes, worn underneath the customary bespoke suit jacket. No tie, of course, as a tie can easily become a convenient strangulation device (he'd learned that the hard way in 2003). No, Sherlock always preferred to leave the top couple of buttons on his shirts undone, exposing the pale, graceful column of his throat that led down to an enticing hollow at the base framed by sharp collarbones. His dark hair was almost artfully dishevelled from the evening's chase. In the dim light from the lamp hanging over their table near the window, the detective's cheekbones and heart-shaped mouth created shadows on his pale face. His eyes were slightly hooded, lending his facial expression the keen, shrewd look it often wore.

In short, "delectable" and "utterly terrifying" had made a baby and its name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Only the most asexual of asexuals could possibly be immune to the perils of being in his presence for more than fifteen minutes. And John Watson, the poor bastard, lived with him.

'_I'm not his date.' 'We're not a couple.' 'In case anyone's interested, I'm not actually gay.'_ Ha. A man did not have to be gay to feel the inexorable pull that Sherlock possessed. And if Sherlock's observations were accurate (and we're not stupid enough to actually question them), John's view of him was not nearly as platonic as he'd have everyone believe. The signs were all there. Prolonged eye contact. Unconscious mirroring of posture. Fidgeting with hair and nails. And those eyes. They were like black pools in that sturdy, slightly weathered face.

"...What?" John saw the look in Sherlock's eye and suddenly felt like he was stepping through a minefield – one wrong move and he was done for.

Sherlock said nothing. Instead he slowly reached his spidery hand across the table and underneath John's right hand, which was palm side down, until his index and middle finger rested on the pulse point.

Elevated. Moist palms. As Archimedes would say, "Eureka." Sherlock couldn't help the leer that slid across his face in satisfaction.

Unlike ex-army doctors, biology did not lie.

John jerked his hand back and hastily placed it under the table. "What are you doing?" He hissed, eyes flickering from one end of the room to the other.

"Changing the subject," Sherlock rejoined with a smirk. "You seem on edge, John. Perhaps you need something to help you...unwind." Or someone, rather. But he'd get to that soon.

John blinked twice in rapid succession, then ducked his head as he cleared his throat and stabbed a piece of chicken on his plate. "Oh, yeah, I...I'm just a bit worried about those thugs. They won't be in jail forever and they'll have a score to settle with us when they get out."

The consulting detective slowly shook his head, eyes never leaving John's. "We both know that's not quite true, Doctor. You're a medical man – taking into account the physiological symptoms that you are currently displaying, what would you say you are actually experiencing?"

Shit. John could see no clear path out of the minefield. "It's nothing."

"Wrong." The grin widened. "It's everything. What's on your mind, John?"

The older man's face seemed to be carved from stone. "Can we please not do this in public, Sherlock?"

"Why not? We're the only ones in the restaurant, as the other two couples left over six minutes ago and Adul is no doubt chain smoking out in the alley. We may as well have it out at last. You've been repressing yourself for_ far_ too long, don't you think? You can't possibly think that's good for you." Ah, there was the condescension. At last.

John glared. "We're just friends. Good friends."

'You'd prefer more than that." John narrowed his eyes further and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off. "And please, spare me the tedium of having to listen to you vehemently deny the attraction towards me that you've been nursing for well over a year. We're really both better than that, and I'd rather this not turn into a cesspool of emotional and moral drama – Mummy made me suffer through two entire series of _Coronation Street_ at age eleven and I don't want a repeat."

John's expression was a mixture of bemusement, frustration, and put-upon resignation. "You're babbling again."

"Bored, John, _bored_. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most perplexing cryptogram, or the most convoluted analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I despise the dull routine of existence. I crave mental exaltation. Help me not be bored."

"And how do you propose I do that? In your own words, I'm an idiot, just like everyone else."

Sherlock eyed his cohort with a mixture of bitterness and cynicism. "You're not the idiot, my dear Watson. In this case, I am."

John resisted the terribly strong urge to attempt to dig wax from his ears. "I'm sorry? Did you actually just say that? I'm afraid you might have a fever."

"Don't change the subject – this is difficult enough already without your cheek. You heard me: I've made a right bloody mess of things."

"How?"

Sherlock stared at a cigarette burn in the wood of the table, mouth screwed up like he'd just chewed on a lemon. "As I mentioned before, I've... been very aware of your feelings for quite a while. And when I began to requite said feelings, loathsome as it seemed to me at first, I should have confessed. Instead I let you think that I was either aromantic or asexual or heterosexual or anything that would keep me from returning your affections. Relationships have never been my area, as you very well know. After all –" he flashed John a humourless smile – "sociopaths are not known for their romantic capabilities. I respect you enough that I'm unwilling to thoughtlessly dive into something that could very well ruin our friendship. What I mean to say is that I, er... _care_ for you." _Care?_ Was that the word that people used? It would have to do for now.

John felt like someone had just sneaked up behind him and smacked him over the head with a sack of bricks. Here was his asexual, insufferable, invent-your-job-and-then-marry-it flatmate, confessing that the feelings that John had been beating into submissive obscurity since they had first met were equally shared by both parties. Good God, there was no way that this was actually happening. Sherlock Holmes was brilliant and passionate and morbidly funny and quirky and heinously handsome. And attracted to John Watson. In a word, he was exultant.

Then the fact that Sherlock had known about the reciprocation and done absolutely nothing finally processed.

And just like that, John went from "pleased as punch" to "I am going to _fucking_ punch you in the _fucking_ face, you _fucking_ son of a bitch."

Sherlock watched a varied range of emotions cross John's face. Disbelief went to scepticism went to hesitance went to contemplation went to wonder went to incredulity went to pure joy. Sherlock repressed a smile as John began beaming like an idiot. Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to him, and the change in expression was simultaneously humorous and frightening. One second the man sitting opposite the lanky detective was Adorable John, who wore woolly cable knit jumpers and loved small animals; in less than a second he morphed into Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, jaw clenched and eyes dangerously narrowed as though he were staring down the scope of a rifle in preparation of a kill shot. Sherlock had never seen him look at anyone with such predatory anger, let alone himself.

And he was going to ignore the ever-so-slight tightening of his trousers. Yep.

"Is everything all right, John?" Wrong question. Everything was obviously _not_ "all right," if John's left hand was any indication (clenched into a fist so tightly that the knuckles were a shocking white). Oh dear, Sherlock was in trouble. And it excited him to no end – he was terrified and horribly turned on at the same time. Fucking biology.

"Fifteen months," John said lowly, dark eyes boring holes into the younger man's heterochromatic ones. "Fifteen months, twelve days. You knew about it. And you did nothing. Did it never occur to you what I was going through, having to be near you every day and not being able to do anything about it? Did it ever?"

Sherlock was now the one tiptoeing through the minefield. "John, I –"

"And even after you felt the same, you still did bloody fucking _nothing_. How considerate of you, worrying about me enough to let me continue to agonize over the situation. 'I'm so worried about my pride that I can't give it a crack because it might not work out for me. To hell with what John might want, he's a simpleton anyway. I think I'll go harpoon a pig now, because it's easier than _confronting how I feel_!'" John's voice and pitch had risen while he was imitating Sherlock, and by the time he'd finished Sherlock was incredibly grateful that no one was around to hear the small-scale explosion.

"Please, John, you have to listen to me," Sherlock mumbled, feeling considerably chastened as he stared through the table. "I was only trying –"

The ex-army doctor held up a hand and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. "I don't want to hear it, Sherlock. Just stop talking, or I can promise you there'll be hell to pay. You've said more than enough tonight, and I don't want to hear another word from you for the rest of it. Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions, and all you have to do is nod for 'yes' or shake for 'no.' Think you can you handle that?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Good. Question one: are you attracted to me?"

Oh, God yes, Sherlock wanted to say. Sensually. Intellectually. Aesthetically. Romantically. Emotionally. Sexually. And all he could do was nod vigorously, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. John couldn't help the little grin that overcame his face. It was not a comforting grin.

"All right then. Question two: you're aware that the feeling is mutual, correct?"

Another nod.

"Okay then. Last question: do you want me to do something about it?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly and suppressed a groan as he slowly looked heavenward and brought his head back down to meet John's scorching gaze with his own.

He'd stepped on a mine. He regretted nothing.

John's smile was now positively feral. "Ah. Right then. Are you finished eating?"

Sherlock nodded once more. It was all he could do to keep from jumping John right then and there and ravishing him on this rickety table. But something told him that he was not going to be in charge tonight. He didn't mind, though. And neither, he concluded, did his cock.

"Good." John somehow made that simple word sound disyllabic and _raw_ and downright inappropriate for public utterance. "Let's go then."

This time, John made the dramatic exit, striding confidently out to the street and efficiently hailing a cab, with Sherlock following closely at his heels (he still hadn't said a word).

The ride was short and tense – the air between the consulting detective and the good doctor seemed so electrically charged that Sherlock was surprised it wasn't emitting loud crackling noises. When they reached the flat, John calmly handed the cabbie the fare and exited, holding the door for Sherlock and softly shutting it after him. Without speaking a word John unlocked the door and they entered, sedately climbing the stairs to their flat. John once more unlocked the door and walked inside, immediately stripping himself of his black jacket and hanging it on one of the pegs. Sherlock followed behind, beginning to remove himself of his coat as well and reaching behind him to shut the door.

The second that the click of the door sounded in the room, virtually all hell broke loose. Well, I say that, but in reality it just means that things escalated so quickly that Sherlock felt significantly discombobulated in what was less than a minute. In twelve seconds John had shoved Sherlock up against the wall, torn open his expensive shirt, and yanked on Sherlock's scarf to bring their mouths together in a bruising kiss while smoothing his other hand down the taller man's chest. While he was incredibly startled and still a teeny bit apprehensive, Sherlock recognised rather quickly that nerve endings were being stimulated and his synapses were firing. He moaned loudly, the baritone reverberations being swallowed by John's talented mouth as the ex-soldier's left hand meandered downwards to lightly tease the pale patch of skin just beneath Sherlock's navel. His left hand moved from its position as a scarf-tugger to cradle the back of the consulting detective's head, fingers tangling in the lush dark curls. John tugged experimentally, probably wondering how Sherlock would react. The response was instantaneous.

With an enthusiastic yelp Sherlock's knees gave out and he slumped against the wall, eyes rolling upward and then snapping shut as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the hard wooden floor. Holy _fuck_, that was unexpected. He'd certainly never had that happen before – never had a single action make him lose his usually impeccable self-control. "G-good God, do that again," he gasped. No doubt his face was an embarrassing shade of crimson as he stood there, arms glued to the wall as he did his damndest to hold himself up.

Just like that, John was gone.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, still attempting to get his breathing under control. John was standing before him, arms folded, face looking stern and less than pleased as he did that _thing_ with his mouth, that _thing_ where he sort of hollowed his cheeks as he reigned in his annoyance. Sherlock got that look a lot, he realized. "I did something wrong." It wasn't a question.

Instead of replying, John sauntered forward, arms still folded as he eyed his reedy cohort with a look that bordered on the diabolical. "Didn't I say something earlier about your keeping quiet or there'd be hell to pay?" Sherlock almost replied verbally, but he caught himself and cautiously nodded, one eyebrow raised. "All right then, so now a few things are going to happen." John began to inch forward with the silent grace that was usually reserved for large jungle cats. "For one thing, I'm going to make certain that you can't continue to chatter for the rest of the night." One of his strong, sturdy hands came up to grip at Sherlock's now-rumpled scarf, caressing the material with his thumb. His voice had dropped in both volume and register, until he was nearly whispering.

_Ohhh_. Even though his brain capacity felt substantially diminished, Sherlock understood the gesture and he could have sworn he felt a twitch in his pants. He had a gag kink_? You learn something new every day._ The room began to feel warm.

"But first, I'm going to fetch those handcuffs that you stole from Detective Inspector Dimmock – yes, I saw you, you berk – and fasten you to your bed. And then...I'm going to make you wait." The hand not suggestively petting the detective's scarf went back to Sherlock's chest, tracing the flat planes and ghosting over a nipple. Sherlock shuddered. "I'm going to make you wait like you made me wait. And after you've laid there for quite some time –" the hand on Sherlock's scarf wound into his hair and yanked his head down, until John's warm mouth was at Sherlock's ear. "_I am going to fuck you through the mattress, Sherlock Holmes_." Sherlock could feel John's smirk against the sensitive shell of his ear and he nearly choked on his own saliva. Sweet merciful heavens, he had a bondage kink _and_ a submissive leaning? Bloody hell. The revelations transpiring within a matter of minutes were simultaneously unsettling and really, really sort of hot.

How fun.

John released his hold on Sherlock's curls and began walking in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. "Coming?" he asked without turning round, having already snatched the police-issue cuffs from the pocket of the detective's Belstaff.

Sherlock smirked and tried not to look too eager as he followed after the good doctor. _If all goes well, John Watson, then perhaps more than once._


	2. In Which Handcuffs Are Implemented

Epicurean Duress – Chapter 2

**Yay, we've finally gotten to the fun part (ie. the part that is fun to read and hard as fuck to write). I don't update incredibly quickly because of life and a job. But rest assured, I have enough ideas to keep me writing well into medical school.**

**Disclaimer: To people who like to sue because they're bored: stay away. I don't own the rights to **_**Sherlock **_**or its characters. **

**Thanks**** to everyone who's been following and/or reviewing this. There will be one final chapter after this, but it'll be shorter than the others.**

**Ready? **_**Allons-y!**_

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><p>"Clothes. Off." Those two words had been John's first utterance upon entering the detective's bedroom. Sherlock obeyed immediately – he'd pushed his luck (well, he'd shoved it out of a damn high-speed lorry, to be honest) too far earlier. He'd only said five words, though; and in his defence, one of them was a stutter and hardly counted as a word anyway. Now that they had moved to a room which contained a bed, and John still seemed quite irate, the consulting detective began to feel as apprehensive as he had in the cab earlier that evening. Still, his heads were giving him mixed signals, so as Sherlock went to obey Captain Watson's order the dialogue in his head went a bit like, '<em>"Clothes off?" Why?' 'Just shut up and do what he says, you stupid wanker.' 'Wait…is John honestly going to –' 'Pipe down up there. Clothes: off. Now.'<em>And thus we see that when a human male is spectacularly aroused, his brainpower is very likely not centred in his brain to begin with. The energy goes further south.

Most of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt had gone flying when John had earlier attacked him (the fact that John had easily destroyed such a well-made garment was so arousing to Sherlock that he honestly couldn't be arsed to care about its current state), so that came off quickly. His shoes were next, one actually flying far enough that it hit the wall opposite with a dull _thunk_. Socks in the corner near the wardrobe. Belt held in his hands a bit longer than necessary – Sherlock was beginning to wonder just what was in store for him tonight. It wasn't a one-hundred-percent-pleasant feeling. John cleared his throat pointedly. Oh, right. Best to cooperate promptly. Throw it off to the side, Sherlock. Next he dropped trou without preamble, and was about to remove his navy blue leaving-nothing-to-the-imagination boxer briefs when John held up a hand. "No, leave those on." Sherlock grunted in confusion.

John pointedly looked from Sherlock to the bed. Wordlessly Sherlock climbed up on it and laid on the smooth duvet, eyes flitting over John's face. The army doctor stopped by Sherlock's wardrobe, chose something from a hook on the inside of one of the doors, and tucked half of it into his back pocket. Immediately thereafter John walked slowly towards the large bed and without pause climbed up, straddling Sherlock. The detective's eyes widened fractionally as his blogger hovered over him. He could barely meet John's gaze; when he did, his amygdala whispered to him that he shouldn't have. There was something about his eyes – they were dark, almost black-looking, full of self-assured power and ferocity and lust and a spark of _something else_ that Sherlock couldn't quite quantify, though he had seen it in John's eyes as they left the restaurant earlier that evening. Whatever it was, its hypnotic swirl in those deep blue pools was mesmerising...and more than a little disquieting. Sherlock felt like a bird locked in the eyes of a snake. He couldn't look away.

Seeing Sherlock's spellbound and slightly uneasy expression, John leaned back and frowned. Well, shit, perhaps he'd scared him a bit _too_ much. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. "Hey," he said quietly, a hand coming up to ghost along smooth jaw and razor zygoma. "It's okay. We can stop at any time."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot into his hairline. John wasn't actually angry? Good to know that he wasn't going to…he didn't finish that thought.

And then he thought, _'This is John, for God's sake. John, who shot a man for me after knowing me for a mere few hours. John, who didn't murder me for getting goitre-blood in his favourite mug. Who would never hurt a fly. Who loves me. Who is…holy buggering _shit_ he's above me on my bed what the hell is wrong with me for thinking something so stupid grab him kiss him kiss him nownownow—'_

John let out a small yelp as he was pulled down abruptly, Sherlock's hands grasping both sides of his flatmate's head as their mouths came together. After combining what insight he'd gathered in the sitting room moments ago with the information he was being fed now, the doctor learnt rather quickly that when it came to kissing, Sherlock was, shall we say, _not a professional_, at least compared to John. (The author would like to note: no one should ever compare themselves to John when it comes to bedroom talent. It would be like a twelve-year-old who likes playing football comparing himself to Pelé. For your sake, don't do it.) But still, John was patient. He began to giggle into the kiss, and Sherlock opened his eyes in confusion. "Slow down," John chuckled, softly grasping the wild hair at Sherlock's nape and pulling his head back slightly.

However, John had forgotten what hair-pulling had done earlier to his consulting nitwit, and all of a sudden Sherlock went boneless (_'At least I'm on a bed this time,'_ his mind supplied rather unhelpfully) and he groaned lowly. His hips did this little _jerk_, which he could honestly say hadn't happened since he was fourteen, and his breathing began to come in shuddering gasps.

At the sight of this knee-jerk response, John smiled, and it was absolutely filthy.

Then he remembered that he had a few promises to keep, and, with Sherlock out for the count for a few more seconds as his frazzled nerves regained their calm, John figured that now was as good a time as any to begin making good on those promises. So, quick as you please, he whipped out Dimmock's cuffs and snapped one on Sherlock's left wrist, threading the chain between the sturdy black wooden bars of the headboard before securing the other cuff around Sherlock's right one. There. Easy.

As Sherlock's respiratory, endocrine, cardiovascular, and nervous systems attempted to get back to normal levels (_'Seriously – what is it with the hair?'_) he hazily noticed that his arms were now above his head and he could feel something cold on his wrists. Finally his brain kicked in and he got really very nervous/excited/aroused, which was likely what the average individual with a submissive streak and penchant for bondage felt in bed under similar circumstances. He liked this sensation quite a bit – he was, after all, a bit of an adrenaline-junkie, so sexual arousal and possible (_'probable'_) orgasms were wonderful additions to the addictive chemical cocktail.

Something was missing, though.

Remembering that the first part of John's "here's-what's-going-to-happen-tonight" speech had yet to occur, Sherlock decided to provoke in John a reaction about which he was extremely curious. He decided to speak.

"So," he started in what he hoped sounded like a disaffected drawl, "am I allowed to speak, or will you merel-_huuurck_." No, that last syllable was not intended, but Sherlock hadn't been expecting John to take the scarf from his back pocket, tie a knot in it behind his back in the span of four point four-two seconds, and jam it into Sherlock's mouth so forcefully that the consulting dunderhead nearly gagged. He jerked his head to and fro – '_Not this scarf, not this scarf, I don't want drool on my Star Witness Scarf,' _– but John was able to tie it securely behind his head with little trouble, a decidedly smug look on his face.

"Looks like I can't trust you to do anything right." John tried (and failed) to suppress a snort of laughter and practically jumped off the bed.

"'Oo anckher," Sherlock supplied unhelpfully, glaring. He'd tried to call John a wanker, but with limited success and even more limited volume.

John resisted the urge to laugh in satisfaction. "Sorry, what was that?" he replied, leaning over Sherlock in a mockery of trying to listen.

So Sherlock tried again, because he's an idiot. "'Oor a 'orhongh." Damn, he couldn't even call John a moron with this thing in his mouth. If he couldn't insult people then what else was he good for? _Solving crimes?_ Fuck that. All he knew was he was handcuffed to his own bed, gagged by an ex-soldier, and so turned on that he felt he was about to come in his pants like some inexperienced schoolboy. His hardening cock was ridiculously uncomfortable, trapped as it was beneath the fabric of his briefs (_'So that's why John had me leave them on. The sneaky bastard.'_) Something had to give. And it wouldn't be John. So…

Sherlock used his legs to lever himself over onto his stomach. If John wasn't going to do anything, then he'd literally "rub one off," John's plans for the night be damned.

…And that was it for John. He was no longer angry. Sure, he had been at the Thai restaurant, but who wouldn't have? He had been upset with Sherlock for allowing such an awkward situation to continue to fester, but he had primarily been upset with himself for not putting himself out there – _he_ was clearly much more forward than the detective, and what, did he think that Sherlock, who denied himself of nearly anything that could be construed as pleasant (food, sex, friends, a good night's _sleep_) would make the first move? He _couldn't_ stay angry with his flatmate; that would mean that he didn't accept the lanky detective for who he was. But he did. He accepted it all, and he knew how he felt about Sherlock.

But although he really did want to focus, and although he wanted their first time to be a tender moment, as soon as he saw his flatmate determinedly humping his mattress he sort of lost his mind.

Sherlock vaguely heard the soft _thump_ of something hitting the floor. He looked over to his left, seeing that John had more or less collapsed in a fit of quiet laughter, curled in on himself as his entire frame shook with the force of his giggles. Sherlock knew he should be annoyed, but as is always the case with John, he couldn't bring himself to feel very irritated. Still, he grunted his displeasure at John laughing at him and John looked up, wiped the wetness from his eyes, and more or less pounced on Sherlock, flipping the man over onto his back. "You are incorrigible," he giggled, reaching up to kiss Sherlock on the tip of his nose. "I was all set to have some fun with tying you up and keeping you quiet, and then you go and make things seem absolutely ridiculous. Sorry, but I can't do that this time round anymore."

Sherlock looked mildly disappointed, but perked up at the "this time round" bit. They were still going to have sex?

Lovely.

The kinky things could wait, then. He'd gotten a taste for powerplay in bed – they'd have plenty of fun with experimenting with that later (_Oh, _the author chuckles, _will they ever…_). Sherlock looked pointedly down at the gag, and John dutifully removed it.

"Better?" he asked, throwing the scarf onto the floor somewhere.

Working his jaw, Sherlock's eyes followed his scarf's arc through the air with a glint of superficial displeasure. "How dare you throw that scarf, John. It was a gift from my mother."

John grinned and mouthed softly at Sherlock's earlobe. "You'll get over it, love," he replied.

Sherlock was already sick of pretending to be irritated. "All right, then, get these off as well." He made the handcuffs jangle against the bars of the headboard for clarification.

John pulled back, a devilish smirk on his face. "…I actually rather like them," he said, the corner of his lip beginning to curl.

Sherlock raised one dark eyebrow. "You don't say?" John's grin turned impish. "You know, the fact that you're getting off on my incapacitation should be unsettling. However, I do believe that this is the most aroused I've ever been in my life. Are you sure you want to have wild sex with your mad flatmate whilst aforementioned mad flatmate is wearing steel cuffs?" His voice slipped into velvety undertones. "Could be dangerous."

Those were the right words, apparently, because John kissed him with such staggering strength that the detective let out a little gasp that was quickly swallowed with voracity by the man above him. Sherlock tried, and failed, and tried and then failed several times over again to wrap his arms around John, to touch his face, his hair, his arms, his _anything,_ as the ex-army doctor made his way down Sherlock's torso, leaving bruising kisses and reddening lovebites in his wake.

"Dammit, John..." Sherlock growled. _I can't even touch him. Where's the fun in tha—oh, ohhh. Fucking hell._ His thoughts devolved from there as John liberated the last remaining article of clothing from the consulting detective's person and promptly began to torture his weeping cock with an enthusiastic tongue. Sherlock's arms hung uselessly above his head as the restraints forced him to take whatever John gave him. _I've found it. I've found the fun part._ He let out a ragged moan as John paid special attention to the underside of his cock, toes curling into the satin sheets and hands balling into fists.

It was too much, it really was. Sherlock was so high-strung that he felt his release sneak upon him much too quickly. He barely managed to let out a string of garbled nonsense before he was coming, letting out a stifled snarl as his vision went dark.

* * *

><p>A few moments later, when the lights had come back on and he noticed that his wrists were chafing, Sherlock looked down his narrow body to find John leaning on him, head resting on arms that were folded on top of the younger man's chest. "Have a nice trip?" John said teasingly, smirk back in place.<p>

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow; it didn't have the same intimidating effect as usual, though, when coupled with the still slightly blissed-out grin on his face. "You can mend bones, cure ailments, shoot people, _and_ get lovers off in record time? My, my, Doctor Watson. Is there anything you can't do?"

"Hmm." John shifted slightly, and Sherlock felt something that seemed rather impressive move near his hip. "Shall we find out?"

Sherlock tried to remain completely po-faced as he replied solemnly, "Oh, _god_, yes."

* * *

><p><strong>Again, a million apologies for the slow update. I keep having these ideas for fics pop up and I have to get something down or I'll just lose it, you know? By the way, I like reviews. A lot a lot a lot. They're addictive. Please become one of my suppliers, 'kay?<strong>


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